Heterochromia Iridis
by JanineCh
Summary: Just another ordinary day collecting body parts from the morgue. At least that's what it should have been when Molly left early for once in over a month. She'd expected he would have left her alone and gone back to his routine, but a call from a pleading father led her back to 221B. Sherlock was never one for babysitting. Why start now? Why act like he cared at all?
1. Chapter 1: Just Another Day

**Chapter 1: Just an Ordinary Day**

Sherlock turned the pastry burner ever so slightly, cauterizing the vein that hung loosely off the severed eyeball he'd received from Molly just before the Euros incident. As he watched the pink flesh shrivel and turn charcoal, he mused about that meeting. Unlike any other day when he came for spare parts, Molly wasn't begrudging. Upon request, Molly immediately went to a small fridge she called the mini-morgue and pulled out two eyes, still fresh, in a plastic bag.

With little resistance in obtaining what he wanted, Sherlock frowned. There could have been any number of things wrong with Molly, ranging from euphoria to temporary insanity. However, he didn't question his good luck. He had gotten what he came for to lighten up his rather boring day. What did it matter that Molly was acting strangely?

As usual, he had taken what he asked for, complemented the part in her hair, she seemed to like that, and turned around letting his long coat flip like a cape. Just as he was about to exit, Molly said, "Heterochromia Iridis. The eyes are just like yours."

 _The eyes are just like yours._

The vein he had been so carefully cauterizing moments before was on fire. Now aware of the burning, Sherlock shut off the pastry burner and slightly shook the eyeball to snuff out the flame. He watched the iris of the eye as he shook it back and forth. The color shifted from a pale green to an icy blue. Just as Molly said, Heterochromia Irdis, the eye changed color depending on its angle to light. Molly Hooper paid more attention than he gave her credit for.

"Oh, for the love of sanity…Sherlock! Do I smell burning flesh?" John hollered, almost causing Sherlock to jump. He had promised John no more burning of body parts in the flat. With a flick of the wrist he threw the eye next to its partner and covered it with a newspaper. He turned on the pastry burner and started scorching something left on the counter. Just as John walked in, Sherlock—with his most innocent smile—said, "Muffin? Made it myself."


	2. Chapter 2: Of Course the Baby Bassinette

**Hey everyone. I'm back. Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 2: Of course the Baby Bassinette is on Fire**

Did Sherlock think he was fooling anyone with that smile? John hardly believed that his friend could be up to anything so dainty as making muffins simply for the joy of baking. Well, baking in the common sense. He wouldn't be fooled by that false cheery smile. Not today.

"No thank you Sherlock. The last time I accepted food from you I woke up in the middle of nowhere with no money, a rubber chicken, and one of your stupid hats in the worst mockery of The Hangover I've ever witnessed."

Dejectedly Sherlock returned his slightly crisp muffins back to the countertop and whispered under his breath, "One slightly-harmless experiment and I am forever branded as an unviable food vender!"

John gave him one of his signature eyebrow raises and countered, "Sherlock, I lost an entire week."

"Well that's just your opinion." It wasn't an opinion. It was fact, but when it came to arguing with John it never helped when Sherlock went out of his way to correct himself as well as that grumpy hedgehog.

"Maybe it isn't a good idea to leave Rosie with you. You know what Sherlock? I can find someone else. Who knows, Ms. Hudson might have already healed up from her hip surgery, or maybe Molly can hide her in the morgue. Or better yet, I could just have her sit in the corner of my office all day. It's fine." John shifted in place, still holding the baby carrier. He hadn't once put it on the ground since coming in. His eyes were slightly bloodshot from a supposed fussy night with the toddler, and a slight twitch in his usually steady trigger finger signaled the detective to solidify his position, or once again be pushed to the backburner like a rejected experiment left to fry.

"John, you and I both know that your boss will have a fit if you bring her to work again, Molly is working on a triple homicide from that 'Jack the Ripper' impersonator—it's boring. Don't ask again—, and no matter how advanced technology may have gotten in thepast few years, no woman can heal from a hip replacement after less then a week." This was the first time John agreed to let him take care of Rosie alone since… It had taken him a lot of care and some extreme circumstances to even let John consider Sherlock as a babysitter. A few bribes even. He worked too hard to convince every caretaker in town to hold to a random holiday like Pi day in the same esteem as any bank holiday.

"It's just that, you haven't watched Rosie alone since…the incident." John sighed. His eyes took on that glossy sheen and loomed over to her corner again. Another mental conversation. He was close to breaking.

"She wouldn't stop throwing that demented rattle!" Although that wasn't the reason, technically, that he was never asked to sit again, it did lighten the mood somewhat. John's eyes grew merry and his lips twitched into a slight smirk.

"That's no reason to light it on fire!" He put the baby carrier down. Good. His resignations already started to dwindle. A slight flush to the cheeks (arguing always did that), and he seemed a little more like the John he used to know. Before…

"I don't see what the problem is, she was laughing the whole time!" Sherlock spoke as if he could hardly believe it, feigning wide eyes and an unbelieving gasp. John gave a slight chuckle, almost like he used to. His best friend in the whole world was still broken, and now he had no Mary to help him wrestle the remains back into some semblance of…normality.

"And now I worry she'll become a pyro maniac!" John heckled back while handing Sherlock the baby bag complete with over twenty-four diapers, a case of wipes, five changes of clothes, a plethora of toys, an old cell phone Rosie enjoyed chewing, three dummies she did not enjoy, five bottles, a can of corn starch (worked better than any other rash medicine), and in the side pocket a smile firearm. He's still scared. Best not mention the gun. He most likely forgot he placed it there to begin with.

"You say that like it's a bad thing. If that happens we'll invest in a fire extinguisher." Sherlock replied. His eyes squinted ever so slightly as he smiled back, mostly to the gurgling Rosie, still in her carrier without a qualm.

John looked down at his watch and cursed under his breath. Sherlock made a point to cover Rosie's ears. For some odd reason this struck John as wildly funny, so he naturally held in a giggle as Sherlock still scolded him for something as simple as swearing in front of a child. The man had gone soft.

John made a move to go towards the front door, but hesitated, "I've got to go. You have everything under control?"

"Yes," Quick, nonplused, curt. Sherlock answered almost as quickly as John asked and began ushering him to the door, Rosie in his right arm with her head resting on his shoulder.

John wasn't quite convinced yet. He fought Sherlock every step of the way to the door. Each time he managed to stop Sherlock from running him out of the flat he would ask another worried question. "You know how to reach me if there is an emergency?"

"Yes," Sherlock's reply came out the same as before, curt, but also with a smile that held no humor, merely impatience.

Another few steps, "Molly is on call if you have any questions."

"I know," another curt answer.

The polite struggle continues as Sherlock walks forward, undeterred to get him out, and John continues to take hesitant steps back, still slightly unconvinced that leaving his daughter with Sherlock, alone, for eight hours, is the best idea, "Don't forget to feed Rosie her bottle in exactly thirty minutes so that she can take her morning nap and not wake up at the forty-five minute mark."

"Honestly John you just swore in front of the child because you were late: Five minutes late I would guess by the way you are fidgeting and have your feet faced toward the door. Also you told me last night that you would need to leave by 8:15 and, as anyone with common sense and a clock can see, it is 8:20. If you don't leave right now you will be late to the office and your boss will make you stay late thus leaving me with Rosie longer than if you were punctual." At that point Sherlock had John out the door. All he needed was it shut and the sense of passing the point of no return to allow John resign to the fact that Sherlock would carry out his duties as godfather whether or not he was indecisive as ever, "Now wave good-bye to Rosie so that she can get some play in before her nap."

"Fine, fine. I'll leave," John huffed behind a fake smile as he waved to his daughter, "but answer me this first." His hand on the door. The whole half of his body was blocking the frame. Sherlock might was well give in to his last query.

"What?" Again his voice was a little curt.

"Sherlock what were you really lighting with that pastry burner when I came in?" He asked it almost in the same way Sherlock would ask him a question that he already knew the answer too. It was slightly unsettling, but he made up a story and decided to stick to it.

"I already told you, muffins! Why, you still mistrust you after all these years?" His response came out full of righteous indignation. Sherlock felt he could fool Mycroft with such a reaction.

"Should I answer alphabetically or chronologically?" Well, when did John start watching detective movies again? "Also, the newspaper in the kitchen is on fire."

John reached into his pocket and pulled out once last item: a rolled up newspaper. As John handed it to the detective he said a little cheekily, "Make sure to return those eyes to Molly before she gets in trouble again." Caught in a lie, Sherlock stood there shocked as Rosie started laughing at the tiny flames dancing across his stovetop. The door swung shut.

He left. He left, and didn't even look back as Sherlock calmly put Rosie down, and in a fit of panic beat the flame into submission. Sherlock stalked across the flat and stared out of the front window next to his favorite chair. The stupid git was actually laughing as he hailed a taxi. Was he nervous about Rosie or was he just being an utter knotter?

Ugh, thinking about people and their…emotions left Sherlock with nothing more than a rising burn of bile in the back of his throat and a headache. He couldn't even take drugs to cancel that out. Molly forbids medication of any kind. Technically he was still recovering. While rubbing his forehead and watching that cheeky hedgehog clime into a cab he felt Rosie pull on his pant leg and giggle. He smelled smoke.

Well, not a good time to let ones guard down. His arm was rested on Rosie's crib. The same hand that held the supposed snuffed out newspaper. With a jerk Sherlock once again sprung into action.

"Of course the baby bassinette is on fire!"

Thus was the perfect start to the day. What else could go wrong?


	3. Chapter 3: Operation J-Distract John

**Chapter 3: Operation J-Distract John**

Could John have suspected somewhere in the corner of his mind that his former flat mate had an ulterior motive? "Suspected" might not have given John's concerns enough weight. "Assured" or "Absolutely Without Doubt" made all the more sense. After all, contrary to Sherlock's opinion, and that of a surprising number of people who frequented his blog, John was no moron.

 _It's only for one day_ John assured himself while looking at the wrong end of a routine enema. This was starting to look like a thirty-pound procedure. The old woman must have been clogged for years. Usually a flush like this took no more than a half an hour, but after twenty minutes of simply doing the fringe work it was evident that it would take infinitely longer to finish what he'd started. To much mind numbing work to do: In out. Squirt the salt water. Rinse and repeat. It inevitably allowed his mind to wonder.

 _Mary would want me to let Sherlock try_.

"Ouch!" Ms. Mortinson yipped in the most alarming imitation of a Chihuahua John had the misfortune to witness. The bitter old bat turned to him and sneered, "For Christ's sake! That hurt. I thought you said you were a professional!"

"I apologize miss. I'll be more careful. It's natural for some blockage at the beginning." John mumbled in a tone that to the untrained ear might sound regretful, but to anyone who had known the man more than an hour would insist he was, in Molly's words, 'giving dry-cut sass." The old woman huffed and resumed lying on her side. He was tempted to stab her again, the old crone. Why wouldn't he be a professional? Did she think that the head doctor of a private practice would let any moron off the street perform a delicate procedure like this? Even when he and Mary ran a practice together he never even had her hold a suction wand.

John couldn't decide what was worse, staring at an ample, wrinkly backside for an hour, or letting his thoughts wonder back to the woman who had insisted Sherlock be a part of Rosie's life. The way her warm voice woke him up in the morning, her cynical stare that had kept him honest, her unwavering love for him—even when he felt he didn't disserve it—all seemed like a dream now. Sometimes a vision of her would appear playing with an older Rosie, helping him with blasted taxes, telling him that this new job would pan out, that he wasn't a failure for letting his own private practice fall under, all leaving him nostalgic for a fancied fake life.

 _Mary_.

No, not today. He would rather stare at an ancient behemoth's rump then think, even for a moment. Sometimes he could go hours, even days without thinking about her. It would not do today. He would not let that ghost haunt him here. Not now. Later. Later when he could cry and no one would be the wiser. Later when he would talk to her, and laugh about Sherlock's childish antics before he realized that there would be no one to laugh back.

It's possible that he'd become even more depressed now than all those years ago. Back from the war, a cripple, a cad, a solder without a war to fight. Was he so lost in his own grief that he'd rather stare intently at watered down crap than even let his mind wonder? Bit-by-bit the disgusting sight before him would shift, and her face, pale and lifeless, would slowly faze its way into his consciousness and broadcast on all frequencies. He'd have to focus even more just to make that repulsive rear reappear once again. At least all that time ago all he had to worry about was a slight tremor in his right hand and a new roommate, who may or may not have been a murderer for all he knew.

Once again John convinced himself to refocus. In and out, rinse and repeat. No need to dwell—

 _Mary was a murderer. You didn't seem to care then._

A clatter. John knocked into some medical dish—gauze, scissors, and gloves—all the contents trickled to the floor. Suddenly Ms. Mortinson's rear becomes fuzzy, his sight retracting once again.

Not now. John's hand, for the first time in years began to tremble, ever so slightly. He could feel the crotchety grouch start to tense. Now he'd have to go back. Can't have an old lady complain twice. It would fuel the boss, who already hated him, with just the cannon fodder she needed to can him once and for all.

No, he needed this job to work for Rosie. College doesn't come cheep—neither would clothes or school supplies. His beautiful girl. What would she have to do if her pathetic father couldn't hold down a job for more than five months?

 _"I never want her to want for anything. When I was growing up mom would curse me if I even asked for a new pair of shoes. John, I don't want to have to tell her no because I'm to lazy to work."_

Suddenly the shaking slowed and bit-by-bit lessened until it was almost unnoticeable. The ancient patient seemed content enough now to relax. He could feel each sphincter muscle loosen. If he wasn't just so happy that a psychological ailment narrowly missed a continuing recursion, he'd gag in disgust, but now his mind turned to other, more pleasant things.

The first time he saw her tiny little face, cradled in her mother's arms. How she squirmed when Sherlock and Molly's whispering woke her up during her christening. How the first time she said, "Dad-a" Mary was so disappointed "Mom-a" didn't come first. How Sherlock awkwardly first held her for only a moment before handing her back to Mary insisting that he never be left alone with the tiny thing. How Molly took care of her when she wouldn't stop crying after Mary didn't come home. How she finally smiled after John got out of the mist long enough to look her in the eyes. How even now she is so proud of standing, even though it is only for a matter of seconds, she'd holler as loud as she could so her daddy would see how smart she is.

His little treasure. His island away from the turmoil of the world.

If anything could distract him from the hairy butt or a face he desperately feared, yet yearned to see, it was the one thing left that mattered.

 _Rosie_

Sherlock better be taking care of her.


	4. Chapter 4: I Mustache You A Question

**Chapter 4: I Mustache You A Question**

 _Buzz-buzz_ Molly's phone vibrated as she walked out the front of Barts Hospital, startling her for only a moment. The cell had been in one of her two extra pockets, and for a fraction of a second she was convicted she was having some sort of heart attack. Luckily for her logic intervened and she answered her call with the usual-

"Hello, this is Molly Hooper." The forced smile in her voice could go without mention, but today it was almost genuine after literally weeks of dressing, and redressing bodies cut so finely an adjective like ribbons wouldn't give the scene justice.

"Oh thank God Molly, I'm so glad I caught you on your lunch!" John's voice came out in a rush of relief yet with a hint of wariness. Ever since Mary died Molly and John synched their lunch schedules, or she rather synched schedules with John. He had a tendency to take the latest lunch possible, at one o'clock every day except Friday and days before holidays. Those days he either worked all through the day hoping to get done an hour early, or he'd deign himself to take lunch at eleven so he could get it over with as soon as possible and work quickly for the weekend. It's rather funny he hadn't caught on yet.

"Actually John I've got the rest of the day off. The boss said I've been doing such hard work lately that I should just enjoy the rest of the day and not bother to come in tomorrow. I think I hit forty hours on Tuesday!" She giggled while walking to the corner, deciding whether or not to take a cab or deign herself fit enough to wait for the much cheaper carriage that would arrive underground in about twenty minutes.

"Some people have all the luck," John complained a little to loudly, but he hushed, as a pair of footsteps grew louder then softer. A pair of heels. The boss was back; "I swear she has it out for me. Today I had to rear flush a woman that must have been constipated since the turn of the century!" This caused Molly to chuckle again, but sensing the potential weight of the conversation, she decided to take a seat on the bench. Either she'd just make the tube or have to wait a little while longer. Who cares? Tomorrow would be a sleep in day.

"John, you do know that if you ever wanted a job at Barts the boss would hire you in a second. He might even make you my supervisor." For a moment all she could hear was the scrape of a spoon against the edge of a pudding cup, and the swish of someone in the background rinsing a plate.

"No, I couldn't. Sorry Molly, but my work right now needs to be with the living. I have enough ghosts to worry about without seeing anymore pop up at my doorstep. I appreciate the offer, but ever since Mary…" There's a shudder in his breath. Slight, but enough to get the message across. This subject, for now, was a no go.

"You don't have to say a thing. I understand." They sat there, her on a bench next to a busy street, him in an empty break room with two lights out, one flickering, and one an uncomfortable florescent, in amicable silence. John sat up a little straighter, and put on his best big brother voice.

"You sell yourself short you know." He paused to let the words sink in, and continued slow and steady. Picking his words with care, "I'm sure that if I were hired the old man would probably give me your position and promote you to manager. You're the best pathologist I know." He stopped and gave a small breathy laugh, "And I've worked with Sherlock."

"Don't remind me. It's so odd to think that we used to be study partners at university." Sherlock had once wanted to be a pathologist just like Molly, probably was more qualified on knowledge alone, but university never sat well with Sherlock, especially after some git offered him a shot the one night Molly decided to study alone, "I wonder how different Barts would be if Sherlock had stuck with it."

"If he wasn't canned from being a general git or setting body parts on fire, he would probably be running the place one day a week, and yet somehow making it more efficient than it is now." John mumbled in resignation. He'd like to imagine a future where Sherlock is a somewhat responsible adult, but really no matter what way lead to way Sherlock would still be Sherlock. The genius nobody wanted, but everyone needed, and he'd know it.

"Yeah, and he'd still be bored, so he'd feign crime scenes with dead bodies and have us solve them like a game of clue. He'd be a twisted boss, like that guy from The Office." Molly could see it now, Sherlock ridding down the halls in a desk chair while screaming, _there's been a murder in the conference room. Bring your kits and brains for once_. Then he'd look pointedly at Anderson and say, _I mean you!_

"The Office?" John questioned, scratching his nose and avoiding throwing his pudding cup away for just another moment.

"It's a cable show that come on a few years ago, had a boss that hated work who would just try to play games with the staff. America did a spin off series that did rather well." Her favorite part was the Jim-Pam storyline, though she'd never admit it. Enough people think she's a hopeless romantic without it.

"Never heard of it," John answered, taking a sip of ice-cold coffee and cringing.

"John you need some more good TV in your life, and not just the trash cable you feed Sherlock so he wont annoy you for twenty minutes." Molly on more than one occasion had to set the DVR to record because John would take any distraction for Sherlock and put it in his arsenal along with an unsolved Rubik's cube, a puzzle of the universe, and anything that had to do with the JFK assassination.

"I know, I know—Oh blast is that the time?" Molly heard the chair crash to the ground as John scrambled to clean up his area before heading back to work, "Molly I know it's fast, but I wanted to ask—I know that you're just dying to get home and catch up on a weeks worth of sleep but—I wanted to ask you a favor." John tucked his shirt back into his pants, one handed, slipped on his white coat, and waited. Molly replied, almost immediately, and with more of a smile in her voice than he'd expected.

"You want me to check in on Sherlock and Rosie?" she surmised, quite proud of herself. John hadn't told her that Sherlock was the caregiver for today, but the top story on her Mommy blog, she had subscribed to purely for reasons to do with her goddaughter Rosie, had published a two page rant on how a friend had been bribed to lie to a customer that a toddler's day-care would have a holiday for Pi day, Molly knew she'd get a call from John at some point today. That's why she'd kept her phone in her extra pocket instead of in her locker.

"Please, I beg you. Sherlock has been alone with her for nearly five hours, and I dread him having to be alone for seven more. I would pay for snacks and dinner and a movie to rent if you would please just make an excuse to stay with him until I can pick Rosie up." John waited at the door to the break room; silently praying she'd be willing to.

Molly would do anything for Rosie. These last few months had taught him that, but ever since Euros…let's just say she avoided speaking with the detective. Oh, when she caught up to them at the hospital and hugged Sherlock in front of everyone, John was convinced that if Sherlock could blush he'd be the darkest shade of crimson. Mycroft had to ruin the moment, either on purpose or out of complete negligence on his part. Honestly with the man's dastardly distain for anything emotional and his complete and utter lack of emotional intelligence John could see it go either way. He'd been talking to Detective Lestrade and said louder than was necessary; _Thank God Sherlock got her to say the code word in time. She'd probably have been blown to bits. Have a swat team check, double check, and triple check her building. Euros said there wasn't a bomb, but I wouldn't put it past her to lie_.

Molly had gone very stiff and pale. Sherlock, the idiot, didn't say a thing. John did the best he could to diffuse the situation by giving Molly a hug himself and telling her about the well he had woke up in, but the damage was already done. She knew.

Hand in the air; Molly hesitated, hailing a cab, still indecisive about whether or not she'd tell the driver to take her home or to him. She debated quietly in her mind, much to John's chagrin. His boss was standing by the punch clock, staring at the watch on her left wrist with a raised eyebrow. Thirty seconds.

"Please Molly. I beg you." He couldn't wait any longer, and started heading towards the disdainful woman. Ms. Mortenson's rear looked better than her sour frown. How could a woman so young look so much like the obligatory creepy old lady neighborhood kids made horror stories about.

The cab came, and without a thought Molly said, "221B Baker Street please." Her stomach sank, but the sigh of relief from the other end of the phone made her smile slightly. Only slightly.

"Thank you Molly!"-click- the phone cut out. John's demon boss had a strict no cell phone policy at work she enforced by texting every code breaker she found with either 'no lunch break for you today,' 'if you can text you can work two extra hours,' or 'I catch you one more time you're fired.' John had received all three of those texts within a week, and when he grumbled about how she managed to text all of them in between her Pinterest sessions she had told him to report to Ms. Mortenson's enema.

Molly knew about the witch-with-a-B boss and let the hurried click pass as the cab turned back down the familiar streets to a home she both loved and dreaded. If anything she could hypnotize Sherlock and Rosie with an episode of Blues Clues while checking in on Ms. Hudson's hip recovery every hour or so and the time would fly.

 _Yes_ , Molly thought as the cab neared closer to Baker Street, _I might even get away without having to even speak a word to him_. She'd be too afraid she'd ask the question she avoided since that fateful night.

Did he know she was the one to call Scotland Yard? Did he know she stayed up all night waiting for news that he was alive? Did he know she arrived at the hospital before he did? Did he know she then waited nearly three hours to see him?

 _Did Sherlock know I truly L-_

Well, there was no time to dwell on it now. The cabbie stopped in front of the same old flat, and Molly started to hand the man a twenty but he just waved her off saying,

"The gentl'men paid me 'afore I came to pick ye up." She almost tried to shove the twenty in the man's face, but he drove off, leaving her with nothing but the smell of exhaust and a simmering anger.

Sherlock knew she'd get off work early today. He knew that John would call and ask her to check up on him. How cocky could this genius be, how brainless, to send a cab, almost as if to taunt her. Almost as if to say _Ha! Take that for trying to ignore me for two months!_

Her key still fit the well-worn lock. Each of the sixteen ancient steps still creaked as she made her way to a door she knew all too well, yet she'd negligent to recently. That door, with the same old off brand military green paint had undergone a little touch up. A scratch on the side caused by a not so sober detective trying to get into his flat now wiped away with the stroke of a brush. Her own dent from pounding the door so hard the last time she'd heard of his overdose now painted over. As if she'd never been there to begin with _._

 _Erased as easily as an elementary mistake made in pencil._

Sherlock must have had the door painted after Euros's famous bomb went off. Molly began to wonder, as she slipped her second key into the door, how much the flat might have changed after the massive repair. Had it really been so long?

As the sturdy oak door squeaked open Molly took in the sight of the flat she knew all to well. John's chair, Sherlock's couch, and even the smile face on the wall appeared unchanged. Naturally Sherlock's piles of books, papers, and whatever other mischief he got his hands on held the same familiarity it did back when she was naive enough to call this flat a second home. With the exception of a slightly scorched pack and play in the corner it all seemed the same.

 _Wait._

A scorched pack and play? Did Rosie light on fire during a nap? No, that was only one of John's nightmares. He'd had a lot of them recently. Molly rushed to the crisp object, filled with trepidation, when a sudden toddler squeal emanated from Sherlock's room. Molly didn't hesitate. She lunged past the couch, around the corner—nearly tripping over one of Rosie's blocks—and found Sherlock sitting on his bed holding the giggling angel in the air.

"You like my mustache! Yes you do!" He said in a cartoonish voice that closely resembled Goofy as he repeatedly lifted her up in the air as high as he could. Rosie would smile, and breathe fast in wild anticipation before Sherlock would pull her down fast until they were almost nose-to-nose. Then she would suck in air, the comic way only a toddler can do, and give a hearty giggle before Sherlock would repeat the process again.

After a sigh of relief Molly watched the two children enjoy their moment of fun before she noticed that Sherlock was clean-shaven, and not wearing one of his comical false mustaches. Rosie, on the other hand, looked like she had a small brown push broom under her nose.

"Sherlock! For heavens sake." Molly startled the detective, causing him sit up strait and place the toddler on his lap, stopping Rosie's continuing circle of fun. Rosie's little giggles only subsided slightly as she reached up to him with hopeful eyes as if to say _Uncle Sherlock we're not done playing!_

"This isn't what it looks like I swear!" Sherlock shamefully spouted as he handed the toddler to Mary's waiting arms. Rosie whispered ' _Momo-mol'_ giving Molly a little glow of warmth, allowing her to stop scowling at Sherlock long enough to smile at her precious goddaughter.

"Hello Sunshine!" She then turned her full attention to Sherlock, disapproving look and all, "Well, you better explain it to me because right now all evidence would suggest you just glued a mustache onto a baby's sensitive lip!"

As Molly fussed with Rosie's false mustache Sherlock scratched his head following her into the bathroom. He didn't know quite how to tell her he was preparing to take Rosie out to investigate a crime scene and may have got a little carried away. Maybe after lunch, which should be arriving in a minute, Molly would be ready to hear what he'd have to say.

He hoped Molly still liked the Fish N' Chips from Billy's Bait Shack.


	5. Chapter 5: First Day

**Chapter 5: First Day**

"In my defense technically she's a toddler," Sherlock hazarded, almost stuttering, but the great detective never stutters. Molly knew that. Every part of her screamed _treat him with the utmost contempt_. She hadn't seen him since that fateful night he'd said he loved her all for a case. That week had not gone well.

She'd lent him those eyes: Those eyes colored the same as those that hunted her every day, every breath, every moment. She had hoped that he might be a little excited. More than once he'd mentioned how the only other person on the planet he'd found with eyes like his were his mother's. Even for the fall the body they'd gotten wasn't quite perfect. Oh the face was just as angled, the hair had his same curl, and the nose hooked down only a little, but not many would notice after a hammer to the face. The eyes though were a muddy brown. Molly hated hiding them from John during the autopsy.

As usual he had said nothing; just nodded at her, complimented her hair (the way she did it every day now _Just for him_ ), and left. No thank you. For a so-called genius, the guy could be an utter dunderhead at times. Bad lead to worse, as it always does for her. It can never be one shoe drop. It has to be a shoe drop that starts a cascade of dominoes that leap past horrible to unbearable. She wished that bad days only stayed bad days.

The part where the boss, only half heartedly, admonished her for giving parts to Sherlock went par for the course as she expected. She understood his objections and his restraint. One could not jut let body parts of loved ones in and out of the mortuary willy-nilly. However, Sherlock kept the place afloat. Not only did his parents consistently donate large sums to the hospital, Sherlock also helped manage Barts a time or two. The hospital still uses the efficacy systems he implemented saving them thousands upon thousands of pounds. Also the hiring process lead to some of the most integral and virtuous doctors Molly had seen in years. Barts reputation is now impeccable, a stark contrast to another hospital that recently turned out to be an expensive murder maze. Honestly, the boss implored Sherlock, on more than one occasion begging on his knees, to reconsider a carrier at Barts. Every time the consulting detective turned him down.

All the bosses groveling didn't go to waste though. Sherlock would always be there at least three times a week, when there wasn't some important case going on, discussing theories with students, conducting research, and only accepting the occasional swipe of a body part or two, in addition to access to Molly's office, as payment.

 _Rich Kids_.

The Boss thought Molly's previous friendship with Sherlock, no matter how brief, would have made the arrangement perfect.

 _Ugh._

He'd completely overturned her office and insisted it be reworked from top to bottom. Something about efficiency. In all her time perusing John's blog one of the main points she always disagreed on was John's notion of the dichotomy between Sherlock's perfectly organized mind and his disastrous living space. Molly was of the firm belief that Sherlock's home was just as well organized as her office. Every article has its place and purpose. Maybe John couldn't see that, at least at the time, because he had never really been around toddlers, or Sherlock, when they try organizing their precious items.

Toddlers, when they first realize that cabinets and drawers are full of treasures, naturally will take every article out of its place and throw it on the floor. Even if their parent puts it back the toddler will insist it be thrown back onto the floor, almost as if to say _Silly Mother! If all the stuff is in drawers you can't see it. It's more convenient to have everything on the floor in easy reach. Can't you tell?_ Obviously the toddler doesn't quite grasp the concept yet that things easy for them are not always as easy for someone else.

Sherlock acts very much in the same way, only with the added bonus that he understands everyone else's limitations. So he was more courteous with Molly, allowing her use of drawers and cupboards, but insisting that most of her important tools have a place on a counter within easy reach and in plain view. Since his home is more or less his to do with as he wishes it is therefore cluttered to the max. Papers on the floor, guns lying around in plain view (many hidden out of sight), counters overburdened with dishes, and a room where the closet might as well be the floor are all just indicators of his mind, so advanced yet so child like. Molly had let him overturn her office, she overlooked him pulverizing corpses, and even let him into her heart.

If Molly were completely honest she'd say that the first time she met the man she was not attracted to him in the least. Unkempt hair, he seemed tall, but only because he was so skinny, and his face was so stretched. Sherlock had yet to take the precaution of John as another illusion for height, but still had a habit of gravitating toward shorter people as he attended university. That's how she met him. In Forensic Analysis 101, Human Anatomy 207, and Math for the Real World 110 (a hated general no one could get away from) Sherlock made a point to sit next to her. It must have taken the man great restraint not to introduce himself, or to say anything, for the bulk of a week. She'd tried to introduce herself more than once but he just sat there silently, not taking notes, with his hands in the now well-known "Sherlock is thinking" gesture.

His eyes were frightening, his face reminded her of a Martian, he was so sickly skinny that Molly legitimately worried for his health, and to top it all off he would always stare at her when she wasn't looking. At one point she remembered him stealing her large eraser. She almost yelled at him then, but he was out the door before she could say a word. He must have waited until the end of class when she was talking to the professor to pinch it. With the professor right next to her she couldn't exactly turn tail and chase after him. So she let him go and vowed never to speak to him again. He was a rude mute anyway

When the first Friday of that semester rolled around her math teacher insisted that every single freshman stand up and introduce themselves, where they were from, and one interesting thing about themselves. Molly and Sherlock sat at the front, most of the class sat as far back as they could. Molly didn't have to be Sherlock to know that they wouldn't last long. No student worth their salt purposely sat at the back of the class.

The professor had insisted that the most unscholarly student in the back start and one by one the horrid monotony of introducing oneself in a ritual of repeated, "what did we need to say," "I can't think of anything special or interesting about me," "could you get back to me," finally ended with Molly and Sherlock the last two. She looked at him willfully for the first time that day and he indicated she go first.

"Hello, I'm Molly Hooper. I'm from a small town just south of Yorkshire. Honestly so small and insignificant that it's easier to say I'm from south of Yorkshire. I like reading, movies, learning about the human body, and hope to one day be a pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. That leads to the interesting thing about me, I don't mind the idea of hacking up the human body to see how it works." She ended with a slight, and she thought, cute feminine chuckle. She had expected a small chuckle from the crowd, but the chorus of "ugh," "ew," and "steer clear of that chick" brought her shoulders down. She sat quietly and waited for The Martian to speak.

"Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes," That voice melded into her ears deep and rich as melted fudge. She did a double take just to make sure, "I'm originally from London," That voice came out of that body? Suddenly Molly became more attentive to the somewhat strange man sitting next to her, "I enjoy much of the same things Miss. Hooper already discussed," At the sound of her name her ears began to tingle. Suddenly his eyes didn't seem so fierce. At least he didn't have a hooked nose making him look like some sort of hawk, "In addition to that I sincerely enjoy any activity that doesn't leave me bored. For example, the art of observation," suddenly his face became more animated, and as he spoke with more enthusiasm his features and his voice just became him.

Suddenly his slim body didn't seem so strange at all, "I observed yesterday Professor that you were agitated with the unsocial behavior of the class. When no one would raise their hand except for the occasional pity wave from Miss Hooper you decided you would have the entire class introduce themselves. You wrote it in the bottom left corner of your planner so you would not forget, and purposely started with the back so that Molly would not be forced to be the first to raise her hand yet again," He had called her by her first name. Oh how she could imagine the way her blush crept to her ears. At this point he held up an eraser, her eraser, and any blush she may or may not have felt warming her neck turned to an inferno, "So I prepared," he bowed slightly to Molly, "Please excuse me for palming your eraser, but seeing as it is the first week with very little work I foresaw its services to be unnecessary. Before today I never had the privilege of speaking with Miss. Hooper, since I suspected a tell-about-yourself day would be in the future, so I can now tell you all I can deduce about our classmate from this simple eraser."

At this point some guy in the back started to laugh. Later on Molly would meet him again when she would consider opening a bank account in a new establishment. One look at his sorry face sent her out of that building as fast as she could take herself. This guy pointed to Sherlock and said, "Unless there is some random blood stain on that sorry excuse of an eraser I don't know what you're gonna find out about her that we don't already know."

"Who knows" another git chimed in "maybe we'll find out she hid a switch in that thing, considering she loves cutting apart dead bodies." Everyone laughed then. Molly's stomach started to ache, and her raging blush evaporated to a pale paranoid white. She sat there frozen wanting to curse Sherlock, but instead she cursed herself.

 _Why did you have to open your stupid mouth?_

 _Everyone back home thought you were a weirdo too!_

 _You think that anybody here would be any different?_

Molly considered running away when the professor was about to chime in. A boney hand stopped him, "The forty-five minute block will be over in ten minutes. I could give them a better tongue lashing in five than you could do in your meandering twelve." At first it looked as if the man would protest, but he looked at his watch (an action that even Molly understood as _I have not time for that_ ) and nodded his approval.

"Our Molly Hooper is currently attending this prestigious institution through a full scholarship which she earned at great cost to herself. She suffers from acute social anxiety disorder and therefore doesn't like interacting with people unless she is forced. She wanted to go to this university because her father graduated from this very department nearly thirty years ago. Unfortunately both he and Molly's mother passed away about six years ago judging by the fact that she has nearly no support for college outside of her scholarship, is here studying every day for at least two hours—even though it is the first week—and voicing her opinion in class in spite of her social anxiety I suspect she will have the highest grade in this class, barring myself if I am not distracted by more interesting work, unlike the twelve of you in the last two rows. Particularly you," his lightning fast exposition came to a shuddering halt as he pointed to the man who would later work at his father's bank, "which is a shame considering by what I can tell from your tie alone that you will be cut off from your rich father as he explicitly told you on the family trip to Australia last week that one poor report would mean your expulsion from university and his generously given funds."

At this point bank guy's face went almost pale as Molly's. The entire class fell to a hushed silence. Molly could hardly believe her ears.

"H-how did you know that?" Molly asked, not making eye contact with her desk partner, while tugging at her braid and staring down ashamedly at her notebook.

He gently placed the eraser on her notebook, and began, "This eraser, though large to the untrained eye, is quite small compared to its prime dimensions. It's been through years of use. Originally this eraser was about three hand spans across and as wide as an average mans palm. You have been using it consistently for six years judging by the consistent wear and tear you give it every day though you're studying. You're indecisive and are very embarrassed by your own handwriting so you erase a lot. As I've noticed throughout the week your eraser is worn constantly each day, you only use it for class work, and yet you've managed to wear it down to a small size. Using your work from this week as an example I've determined you'd have had it for at least ten years, but accounting for weeks of more athletic accommodation, I would guess six years. That lets me know you are extremely studious.

"Part of your studious nature comes from the fact that your father graced this institution over thirty years ago as you can tell by our very university's insignia stamped out in a repeated pattern over the top. Your father was older than your mother, given that your father must have been in his fifties when you were conceived, and an average woman stops bearing children around 43 years of age. He was obviously very studious in either design or anatomy. Both classes of that year were presented with an eraser that supposedly would accommodate the top five of each class through their careers. Your father never used this; instead he kept it in a place on his desk in the sunlight, as you can see by the way the suns light has yellowed the top of your eraser compared to its original pristine white on the bottom.

"For some reason you got hold of it six years ago. Such a precious possession that stood on a desk for over fifteen years wouldn't be handed to you on a slight whim. I would therefore deduct that your father died. Your mother might have been willing to keep it as a memento, or have kept it on her husband's desk, but instead it went to you. She either left the picture before or more likely died before or around the same time, which is when your social anxiety kicked in. You have consistently stabbed the same part of this eraser along the same edge in the same pattern until your work has forced it to move due to your need to expunge your work. That combined with the knowledge that you haven't shared this eraser with anyone, same routine eraser marks, none of a foreign friend you study with mucking it up even for a second. If a student as studious as you doesn't study in a group then she must either find people distracting, or is somewhat afraid of them. Judging by the fact that you can use your father's eraser without slowing down even once for a moment of sentiment I can conclude you are more afraid of failure than of a connection."

She had not looked up all this time, but instead had watched as he pointed and manipulated the eraser in front of her while he explained in that impossibly fast voice. As she looked up she saw his face had gravitated a bit too close to hers. As he had been hovering over her to explain the deduction, and the entire class had surrounded the front desk, all looking in astonishment as the deductions he had made earlier all began to make complete sense.

"Hey! How did you know she was poor and on scholarship then?" Bank Guy hollered, "and how did you know I went to Australia by just looking at my tie?"

"Obviously if she is studious enough to get into this institution and to wear down an eraser meant to last an architect through his whole career to the size of her palm she would most likely have grades good enough to receive a scholarship, also in all those six years of using her fathers prize possession as an ordinary eraser no one even bothered to buy her a new one. Usually guardians more attentive to their wards would take the time to buy a child school supplies.

"I would suggest she has few possessions of her parents to hang on to after their deaths, most likely her new guardian didn't put much stock in them. A woman with as much sentiment to keep an eraser would just as likely wear a necklace from her mother and not this cheep play metal you can find in any two-bit shop from here to Canterbury. I did however omit these deductions from my explanation because while the eraser did help me arrive at them, other deductions helped me conclude them. I thought her being studious would be a good enough explanation for you."

Molly had watched Sherlock now, full on in front of everyone else, entranced at his quick and sure way of speaking. If given a thousand years she could never do what he had just done. In that moment, watching him defend his deduction with such conviction, made his features seem all that more appealing. Sherlock was definitely a man more interesting to watch in action. His eyes lit up, his voice masterfully articulated in baritone tones that his magnificent brain could explain a deduction so simple any common a noggin could understand.

Suddenly his looks just became him.

"You have a spot of ketchup just above the tie-pin." Sherlock gave the man a moment to look closely. Bank Guy was slightly flabbergasted, "It's watered down, but not in the way it would be if you tried to rub it out immediately, I would assume then that the ketchup came from a country such as China or Australia since their ketchup is more a glorified tomato sauce that is less thick than the European or American counterpart. I know that this time of year it is popular for businessmen from China and England to meet in Australia for a 'business trip.' Obviously your mother tied your tie on that day you had ketchup with your fish and chips because today you've knotted it in the same fashion, but it's sloppier, and the previous creases would suggest smaller fingers tied the last knot.

"A father who was waiting until that day to tell you you're in danger of being cut off would let his wife indulge in babying her poor little boy one more time. Likewise I know that your father has decided to cut you off if you don't clean up your act by the way your tie, which has been well cared for it's entire life until that day given that other than the ketchup stain from Australia and the syrup stain from this morning-"

"Where-"

"-At the top left corner of your knot. Don't interrupt me. It is consistently stained, but with the exception of a recent trip to Australia it has been pressed and cleaned for you. A mother who loves you enough to tie your tie for you even as an adult would obviously want your laundry done before you go back to university, but unfortunately. as previously stated, fixing your tie for the day was her last hurrah. Given that your tiepin is the insignia for one of the largest banks in England, and every member of the board privy to that pin is a male, I would say that your father was the first proprietor of that pin. Therefore he expects a man of your stature to graduate from university and pass a class as simple as 'Math for the Real World' if you should ever one day hope to take over his vast empire."

"Wait," chimed the git who made the remark before about Molly hiding a switch, "I know you! You live in the same dormitory as me and ketchup stain over here." His gaze turned accusatory, "You would already know our parents paid for our education. The Ivy Dormitory isn't cheep. Everyone knows all the rich kids stay there."

"Yeah!" piped up Ketchup Stain, "how can you look down on me when you're here on your daddy's money?"

"I'd like to begin by saying it's 'Ketchup Stain and me' not 'me and Ketchup Stain,' also I never said it was wrong to have your parents pay for college. Although I may have insinuated it would be a shame to waste such an opportunity on you considering a woman like Miss. Hooper over here would make so much more with that opportunity that you ever could. I could deduce much more about you, the fact that you've already slept with two women from this class—yes the red head to the right and the blond in the fourth row—, and the fact that you're a kleptomaniac—The lady behind you lost a button, and you swiped it off her desk—, but I only said I'd deduce what was on your tie. I thought it would be the least embarrassing for you."

At that point the professor insisted on handing out their homework assignment. The bell rang, Molly prepared to leave, then she noticed the entire class waited. Sherlock held out his hand. She flinched, only for a second, and he backed up a bit. Sherlock tried to placate Molly with a smile, and she timidly reflected the sentiment.

"Molly, seeing as you have no other classes for today would you be willing to accompany me to the library?" He turned around without waiting for an answer, and headed out of the classroom, and she, young and naive, followed him thinking that he was just possibly the most attractive man Molly had ever seen then…or since.

That was the start to their friendship. At least she would call it that. At that time she'd even admit she thought of him as a white knight of sorts who had a pension for sarcasm and the occasional bought of melancholy. That's why even if her boss refused to look the other way she would still sneak body parts out of the morgue just for him. She thought it would always be worth it. Molly let the boss give her what was due before clocking off for the day, the same day John and Sherlock went missing.

Molly made it home just in time find her cat lying on the floor. It gasped, contorted, and shivered. Its great orange coat that had once been full and shiny over the years had gone dull and patched. In the back of Molly's mind she knew this day was coming, but she didn't expect it would come this soon. Poor George died in about an hour.

In a fit of panic she had called John, Ms. Hudson, Greg, and Sherlock, but none of them answered. She had to bury George in the garden out the back of her flat, alone. Without that big ball of fur her apartment seemed a little more empty than usual. She lay down on her couch and cried and cried and cried for how long she couldn't say. How pitiful she felt, mourning the loss of a cat so violently. She'd just convinced herself to get up and make herself a pot of tea when she heard her cell ring. One look at the caller sent a wave of disgust and annoyance.

 _Sherlock._

She ignored the call. Why answer the shoddy git when he didn't even bother answering her five texts and three messages five hours ago?

- _Ring-_

The insufferable cad! How dare he call her back! How dare he call her at all? He preferred to text. She could count on her fingers all the times he had called her in the last ten years.

- _Ring-_

She had answered (How could she refuse? It was her stupid git after all), and witnessed the greatest joy she'd ever felt in her life. She remembered the way her entire being trembled, the way she had nearly kissed the receiver when she'd heard that velvety voice tell her he'd loved her. It all seemed to good to be true.

 _It was_.

"Molly, I need to get past you." That voice still as rich as ever, still able to turn her tummy just as it did that day he introduced himself, brought her back from her little reminiscing. Somehow in all that time she had put Rosie in her highchair and accepted a cup of tea from the detective without even acknowledging him.

She took a seat next to Rosie and let Sherlock answer the door to whatever lost cat might have recently stumbled near his threshold. She'd fully expected a client to implore him to take a case, but instead she heard the door shut only a few moments later, with only one pair of footprints heading back to that kitchen.

 _Curious._

He stood there holding two large bags of the greatest food on the planet: Billy's Bait Sack! Just then Molly's stomach rumbled. Had she eaten at all that day? She rubbed her neglected middle and watched as he put both bags on the table opposite Rosie. There was plenty of room across the table next to the bags, but he took his seat next to Molly.

It would've been so easy then to ignore him. To turn her full attention to the child next to her and drown out anything he might say. She'd managed to ignore him up until now, but as she reached into one of the bags she felt long, strong yet slim fingers brush her own. She couldn't resist one look. Just one to check if it was a mistake, if everything…

 _University_

 _Barts_

 _That Phone call_

Was it all a mistake? A pair of startling eyes met her own. Full lips curved into a hopeful smile, crinkling that strait nose and making him look almost as boyish as he did that first day. In that moment she wondered how she ever, even for a second, though he wasn't the most handsome man she'd ever seen. It was too much. She turned her attention back to the bag of chips.

 _Pull away_.

She tried to get her hand out of his grip, but instead Sherlock held on with both of his, strong, safe, and secure. Part of her never wanted him to let go.

"Molly, I need you to look at me. Please."


	6. Chapter 6: Fish 'n Chips 'n Apologies

**Chapter 6: Fish 'n Chips 'n Apologies**

"Molly, I need you to look at me. Please." His beautiful rumble reverberated through the room only halted by Rosie's little whimpers for food. She did have ten teeth now that could masticate even the toughest of chips. Sherlock relinquished one of his hands to assist little Rosie. During which Molly sat there staring at the one hand that still clung to hers.

 _Sherlock doesn't say please._

He waited, pilling a hearty helping of food onto a plate, but in spite of the rumbling in her stomach she didn't dare move. How could she face him now when he made her feel so disconcerted? Her heart pounded furiously at the pressure of his finders as they circled about her wrist. That familiar old blush crept up her neck as little wisps of his breath brushed the top of her head. The roiling turmoil that started in her upset stomach spread to her toes instinctually shuffling them into a flight position. If she dared to look at him she wouldn't know if she would kiss him or kick him right in the shin.

Either prospect suited her just fine at the moment. Though now she might prefer the latter.

"Sherlock I can't eat if you don't let go of my hand." Soft, her voice came out in a hushed whisper that was nearly drowned out by the toddler's excited chatter. Rosie was too enamored with her chips to notice anything unless Sherlock forgot to replenish her supply. Molly imagined that if Sherlock wanted to he could pretend he didn't even hear her request.

 _Why not? No one listens to you anyway._

She tugged her hand away from his awkward grasp and plucked at a chip or two. Why had he held her hand so suddenly? This was the man who prided himself on being a master of deduction, not a complete social idiot. Couldn't he deduce right now that she was uncomfortable? Maybe chips wouldn't sit well in her stomach after whatever he had to say. She lifted her plate about to dump her lunch back into one of the bags when Sherlock surprised her yet again.

"I-I'm worried about your health" his liquid velvet voice came out in a rush. What surprised her more: the sudden shift in conversation or the great detective stuttering? Either way it pushed her body past whatever ambivalent feelings she may have had of snog or flight. She lifted her head and looked him strait in the eye not quite expecting the spectacle before her. The usually stoic detective suddenly resembled something more akin to a puppy than an emotionless Martian. His head tilted to the side, his lips curved in a slight frown, and those lovely brows pulled together quite nicely into a perfectly shaped semblance of concern.

"What?" was all she could manage, as she looked at his poor face so alien to the feeling of conveying emotion of any kind.

"Back at the hospital when you hugged me I could feel that your waist had gotten smaller. At first I paid it no mind. You're a woman who cares very much about her health and appearance. Perhaps a new exercise regime was working wonders with you. The thought that it was a little unnatural stuck in my mind. Just now I was measuring your wrist and it's nearly three centimeters smaller in circumference then when I last saw you. Your slender wrists have always seemed healthy to me. Usually one can tell a good deal about ones health by that part of the body because it usually stays a consistent size through almost any weight fluctuation. With diet and exercise I would suspect your wrists would actually get a little ticker as more muscle forms. The only conclusion I can make is that your muscles themselves have begun to atrophy. This often occurs when the body goes into survival mode burning everything for fuel, including muscle mass." He spoke his deduction clearly, as if he were solving a case on the couch for some bloke who thought his wife went missing when in all actuality Sherlock only needed to tell them that she was most likely in another mans apartment.

"But I don't avoid eating," Molly countered, taking a chip from her scattered plate and chewing enthusiastically (this caused Rosie to giggle and clap her hands. Both she and Sherlock took a couple more overenthusiastic bites causing the toddle to giggle yet again. About thirty seconds passed in the same fashion until Rosie give them a stare holding a great resemblance to her father conveying a exasperated _Um guys that was funny ten seconds ago: I'm over it now_ ). As Molly chewed her delicious chips, and some truly heavenly fried shark, her tummy's growl ebbed away. Yes she did almost turn down his offer for food, and she hadn't eaten today, but, "I'm not anorexic or bulimic if that's what you're asking!" Anger and shame warred for position in her ever-fluttering pulse as she glared at the detective.

 _What does he know? He's probably gone insane from a half day of babysitting._

"Everyone has their ways of coping with loss." He said almost more to Rosie than he did to Molly. It was his turn to avoid looking her in the eye, so he turned his attention to the toddler who would smile at even the most plastered, un-genuine grin. "Some are better than others. Lestrade paints, Anderson obsesses over theories, and Mycroft eats the occasional sweet. Some aren't as healthy." He looked down at his own plate while explaining his theory as if he were watching the events unfold in the middle of his deep fried halibut. "John retreats into himself severing connections to friends and family. While in his self-imposed exile he blames his breakdown of familial connections on psychosomatic injuries, which may result in a depressed relapse into a less severe form of alcoholism. I also disconnect from others and retreat to my mind palace until thinking becomes too much for me," he paused and then turned to face Molly, "So I turn to old habits that allow this highly productive modem to slow down." He concluded by tapping a pointer finger to his right temple.

"Drugs," Molly answered. It came out a little too quickly. She wanted to skim over that part. Sherlock knew Molly's opinion of the stuff as well as a five-slap lecture could pound it into his ironically thick skull.

"Yes," sensing her discomfort, or deducing it from her eyes narrowing and cheeks flushing, Sherlock moved on, "Ms. Hudson gambles." To Sherlock's amusement his pathologist's eyes widened to about the size of a pair of golf balls. Molly hadn't heard that one yet. "She's lost that Ferrari on more than one occasion you know. It's taken her over eight years to trust me enough to have even an inkling of her problems. Like John and me, she tends to try to solve her problems on her own." Rosie cried for yet another chip, but Molly stopped Sherlock's outstretched hand and ripped off a piece of her deep fried shark.

"She needs some protein. We might also have to feed her some vegetable mush from John's monster bag if you didn't order a green," Sherlock shuffled through one of the smaller bags and pulled out a small styrofoam container. Molly accepted the slightly watery mess that was "Coleslaw…"

 _Can Rosie eat the stuff? Fries are fine, but she chokes on chopped cucumber._

To the untrained eye Sherlock seemed uninterested in whether or not she'd feed his pick of green. His eyelids lowered giving him a slightly bored and stiff air, those lips held themselves in a nonchalant resting frown, and his unrelenting stare seemed to decide that a grease stain on the side of one of Billy's Bait Shack's paper bags was the most interesting and curious thing in the room. Would it be so bad to let Rosie try the stuff?

Knife in hand (it only took a good reach to the right through Sherlock's toddler-inspired filling system) she did what she could to cut the watery mess into smaller chunks and proceeded to feed the now fussy child next to her. Little Rosie giggled with glee and signed for more. Sherlock made a good call after all. She smiled back to the detective then focused on wiping a bit of dressing off Rosie's drooling chin.

"You're different," that beautiful base voice rumbled, "When life gets hard you don't push people away. You pull them close." Almost as if to emphasize the point he leaned closer and rested his hand on her shoulder, "When Mary died you were the one that kept John going. All those nights you had to babysit Rosie and all the days you met Ms. Hudson in the park because John didn't want her anywhere near me."

 _He said he'd rather have anyone but you…but you._

"When George died you called me almost seven times. How many friends did you ring in your contact list before you buried George alone?" Although his thumb messaged her shoulder in a slightly circular motion, attempting comfort, she didn't dare turn around. Tears, oh God, she didn't want to cry in front of Sherlock Holmes. Not now. Not now. "How did it feel grieving for Mary when John couldn't see…when I couldn't see? All this time you've been waiting for a friend to shoulder your grief and we've all been absent with our minds on other things. We've all let you down. I let you down and left you to suffer alone." Gentle. The gentle timbre in his voice sent a quiver though her ear. If she were a cat her ear might have twitched. He reached across and grabbed her other shoulder, turning her toward him. No fighting it now. She only prayed that a slight redness to her eye or increased viscosity to any nasal fluid would elude the detective's notice.

 _Pretend your eyes are sponges. Pretend your eyes are sponges!_

"You aren't eating consistently." There was a pause as he waited for her to defend herself. She inhaled, an excuse at the tip of her lips. Before she could speak Sherlock stopped her with a finger to her lips, "Believe me I know the signs. I've gone through much the same thing before I met John. He taught me to take better care of myself. You taught me to take better care of myself." Her ears burned at that, but her chest glowed. "I know that you aren't purposely avoiding eating to garner attention. You're just going through your second strategy of coping with loss. You delve into your work and block everything out masking your pain with a smile."

 _Splat!_ Rosie signaled she was done with her coleslaw.

"Oh love, you want to get down and play before your afternoon nap?" she pulled away from the detective and assisted Rosie out of her high chair. For about twenty minutes the toddler ran herself ragged around the room, more figuratively than literally as crawling was still her preferred mode of transportation, squealing and pulling at anything she could get her hands on. All too soon the little one was wrapped up in her blanket and dosing happily.

 _Praises be to whatever deity that made her a good sleeper!_

It felt so odd to Molly, playing with Rosie, pretending her heart didn't erratically jump leaps and bounds. What an effect the consulting detective had on her (especially when he read Rosie her naptime book). Did Sherlock care enough to worry about her health or was it simply a means to an end? Without her keeping an eye out for unnecessary body parts in the morgue her boss might not be as lenient with lending 'scientific samples' to the man. All he ever did was use her.

 _I-I love you…I love you_

Suddenly her stomach began to cramp up again. It wasn't until she sat back down to her half-eaten plate of chips that she realized a fake smile had been plastered to her face all the while. She munched the rest of her chips but with no gusto. When did smiling make her feel more plastic than a Barbie?

"Molly you never ask anything of us. Of me," Sherlock reached across her shoulder to grab her now empty plate and put it into the sink. "You think you don't count. You don't want to be a burden to others, which is an attitude I suspect you gained from your Uncle, so you try to become invisible." She heard the detective scrub her plate a little more slow and careful then was necessary. He continued to speak opting to turn his back to her rather then pull her close, "How often do suffer in silence? Do you remember the day I deduced your history from your father's eraser?"

 _How could she forget?_

"At our study session afterwards I asked if you wanted some crisps you looked at your watch and realized you hadn't eaten yet that day. When you stress or become a bit melancholy you have a tendency to forget about your needs until someone else brings them up. You and I are more alike than you think in that regard Molly Hooper. Just as I need you or John near me during a case you need someone to lift you up, inspire you to do better. I arranged for you to come here today to ask something very serious." He put the plate away and turned to Molly, rubbing his hands in a towel. "Miss Hooper all I ask is that you allow me help you get the attention you need so that you can better work, take care of Rosie, and most importantly get to being yourself again."

The great Sherlock Holmes was asking her to spend time with him? A 'No' leapt to the tip of her tongue, but something in his eyes, the way they now flashed a cold icy blue, stopped her.

"Alright Sherlock." The sigh of relief was almost enough to undo her. Maybe he really was worried about her. Maybe he did just want her to get better. "What would you like to do?"

…

Part one complete. Molly accented to working with him. That was the easy part. Sherlock would be a fool not to admit at some points he was worried she'd storm right out of his flat. Rosie was a good deterrent just as he predicted. It was worth all the pains it took get John to let him babysit her.

Molly sat waiting for an answer, eyes slightly dilated. Now that he thought about it her pupils were always a bit large while she was around him. Part of him wanted to blame the formaldehyde, but she didn't work with it every day. The probability that she only worked with the stuff on each day he just so happened to waltz into her life was ludicrous. Molly's torso and toes faced toward him, arms more open, but her fingers laced themselves together delicately in the front. All the signs pointed to a woman who was interested in him for some reason or another, but it was marred with a mix of slight trepidation and fear.

There was no way to sugarcoat this one. Molly was willing to stay, but something about their meeting spooked her. He didn't dare cut into the situation to find out. When he thought about Molly his mind wouldn't stop, and he couldn't use any type of retardant now that she had forbidden even so much as an aspirin to dull his ever present headache. Best to get on with what he wanted.

"I'd like your help on a case," He walked to the fireplace and pulled the pocketknife out of a small manila folder, "Take a look at these pictures and tell me what they all have in common." He observed Molly's eyebrows rise as she flipped through the five snapshots, surprise totally evident.

Her voice came out quietly at first, "All women about the same age, height, hair color," then it built up a little. Possibly his girl was gaining some confidence, "even similar style, and…" She paused, running a finger through a loose tendril at the base of her neck, "they all resemble me." She handed the pictures back, avoiding eye contact this time, "Sherlock, what's going on?"

"The police have been running themselves ragged over these women." He threw each of the five pictures on the table almost as if to punctuate his point, "All found dead. They suspect some young man who works out in the boonies to be the killer, a John Graham I believe, but he has an alibi for each and every one of these murders." Another snapshot flutters to the table of a young man in his early twenties, "He's too young. All the evidence so far fits the description of a cereal killer with the panache for a repeat kill. All women look the same; all are killed the same way—asphyxiation via orange scarf, handmade—Most likely we have a killer at least in his early thirties who murdered a woman of this description once before and is trying to get the same rush again. The police have been unable to find victim zero and neither have I," He looked at her then, with his emotionless deductive face on, "I don't have a lead quite yet, but I have a plan. I just need one thing."

"And what is that?" Molly asked, wrapping a sweater that eerily resembled victim 3's tighter around her slender shoulders.

Now was the time to be poignant. The time to tell her everything: Why he'd gone through all the trouble to babysit Rosie for a day. Why he'd been suffering from lack of sleep. Why he desperately wanted to see her; however, the greatest detective in the world could only mutter, "You."

 **Next Week: Undercover Redheads**


End file.
